Mental illness would be a lot more fun if it didn’t feel so much like mental illness. Some things just feel profound to me today, like my sense that I am not such a good lier anymore.

I used to be able to follow the norms. I used to be able to play the part a little better.

The part of what?

The part of something, in honesty, I don’t even know. So I don’t even have an answer for who I have been all these years.

A part in the sham.

Kind of sad.

Sad.

Real.

Really sad.

Isn’t it funny that I sort of wish I could be more fake when everywhere you look (or I look) I’m always finding these splendid, grand blog masters (and other professionals) on being real, authentic and present.

It’s bullshit.

Nobody really wants to be those things. Because if they were….I guarantee most of the time they would probably hate it.

Ok. So I don’t exactly like if at the moment, myself. And I’m really just speaking for myself. I’ll keep this to myself.

No, not to myself. I’m telling everything.

I’m telling.

I’m telling.

Yes. I’m immature probably.

And I’m telling.

I know maybe nobody will care.

Most people didn’t care when I ever told anything before. Before….before as in when I was going about acquiring the disease in my brain. My heart. My brain. My f-ing heart.

It’s lame. That’s what it is. It’s f-ing lame, especially when such a clean slate is getting a underpainting like this.

But it makes me feel a little bit better, strangely enough, that I wasn’t really anticipating a brand new canvas or anything. Breaking the norms and all….the new year is kind of the same-old to me.

Life is too short (even when extended to the far end of the spectrum) for new years. This is all one brilliantly stringed together life of days and they never really start over.

If there were I would have started over at some point by now. I promise that.

This is the quiver-in-my-belly truth.

The end-of-year holidays pretty much do me in every time.

Even when I get a new puppy. Even when I am venturing into places I’m passionate about in my little art world.

Nothing saves me from it. It lingers and it taunts me all year long. It is always there, just waiting…because it knows there is no escape from it where I live. Unless I choose to live somewhere very different…from which there will be other just as bad or worse things I would be unable to escape from.

So, I get it all wrong.

This is supposed to be all clean and pure and high intentions and songs of praise for the coming light.

But all I feel is shaken into darkness at the moment.

At the moment.

The stupid moments I’m so much more present with because people tell me this is BETTER.

(I thought this would be the place where I would come to say the most, but it hasn’t turned out that way. I guess it fits with the rest of my life because so much that I thought at the beginning would be one certain way has usually ended up to be something entirely different. This blog is no different

But I like to think that I am different.

I say “…I like to think…” because don’t people usually think the most about what they like to think? I’m not sure. That all becomes very confusing to me because there’s always so many different things going on in my life and head. I’m sure I’m not entirely different from the majority. But sometimes, for me, the thoughts go on to live their own separate lives. Enter: Separation.

I keep hoping that something I do will bring my life…ONE life….all together. I think a lot about authenticity and vulnerability. I found this great person, a doctor named Brene Brown who has studied these very things (along with Shame) for many years. I mean, I didn’t actually find her. In fact, I’ve never actually even seen her in person (thought that would be super cool!) I found her blog online (at www.ordinarycourage.com ) And now I don’t even remember how! Crazy. But anyway, I found this cool lady. (One of my favorite pastimes is finding cool ladies.) Women. Strong Women. I look for them everywhere. But as I was saying, I found Brene Brown. I highly recommend her take on life and think you should look her up and find her too.

So I still haven’t found the focus of this blog (or apparently this post either, sorry) (And sorry for all the parens…how annoying!) (SORRRY!) This is what it’s like to be me. I live in the parens. I’m kind of out of focus in my own life. But have you ever noticed how the stuff in parens is the stuff you actually want to say? It’s like the real words. It’s like the stuff that isn’t in the parens is almost just bullshit sometimes!

I don’t know where i’m going with this. Maybe I should just use this blog to brainstorm. Maybe that would be interesting. Maybe that would hold an audience?

I just don’t know! I have a million thoughts going on today! (And if you included the “paren thoughts” it would be at least two million, combined.)

Where was I?

Oh yeah, I was coming here to try to get all those great thoughts out I just had while I was in the bath while my baby girl is taking a nap, and now I’m trying to hurry up before she wakes up!

I’m always ending my posts on the note that I have to go because my baby is waking up from her nap.

Tada! Guess what! That thought must have been just a tad TOO loud because now she’s up! Not kidding. Totally awake!

Well, I probably didn’t accomplish here what I set out to do, but that’s never kept me from trying again!)

I spent some time in the basement today trying to dig out my art supplies. In the middle of my art is a lot of old writing from years ago. For all the years I have such a hard time remembering I have written my own words along the way to bring me back. They are like crumbs in a fairytale forest. But like crumbs in a storm most of the papers are mixed together at this point. They are disheveled at best from move after move after move and not quite being able to part with what I’ve known is sometimes the only clues for me to my history to put together when I have the chance.

***

I got the iPhone 4S today. I discovered it has a voice activated text/email feature by accident when I inadvertently came upon old writings in the basement. I stopped and began to speak my story into an email to my therapist. It might be the first time I’ve ever used my writing voice for the spoken word. I went to that place where the past meets the present and let it breathe. It was just a small start, but it was a start. When I realized there was a microphone in front of me and not just a keypad the possibilities of what healing might look like opened up to another level.

Empowerment to sing my song.

I have a hard time hearing myself. If I only write I can stay somewhat dissociated from the content. After all, I have boxes and boxes of writing, but still haven’t integrated it into my existence. But to hear myself is closer to really listening…and listening is a fingertip away from being real.

And being real is a heartbeat away from opening up to the world and to life.

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